Imported Ingredients

I hate my name,

though my mother gave it  

for my birthday.

I hate it because it isn’t mine.

It isn’t like the stars,

it cannot stretch like they can.

My name sounds exactly the same

no matter who points to it.

I want to feel like

my body isn’t just

imported ingredients:

something taken from

something else,

my name yet another thing

on the list of

what I do not own.

I no longer wish to be

disappointed by my lack

of an individualized label.

And God,

I just want to hear

my name

and I don’t want to turn around

expectantly

every single time.